“Women’s theology from the Third World, like all feminist theology, puts great emphasis on doing theology. It is theology as an activity, as an ongoing process rooted in praxis, interdependent with and compassionately committed to life, justice, and freedom from oppression. It is not theology as a reified, academic subject with watertight categories, clear boundaries and sharp intellectual definitions totally separate from people’s experience” (Ursula King, 1993, 16-17)
I looked at the lectionary, but I think we both still need some time apart.
Instead how shall I DO theology this week? That’s a sensible question because I prefer to dream and intellecualise rather than do. What can I do that will make life have meaning? What will I do that brings Godde into my life, incarnates Godde?
Where are the places to care? Where are the places to resist? Where are the places to show-up? Where are the places to look after my own small family and even my own needs? How do I get past my insomnia and my waking nightmares, my heavy chest and tingling fingers and toes? Another anxiety attack and where is Godde?
Godde may be in the third world where people are less privileged than me. Godde may wish to hold the hand of the person who can’t leave the house for fear of racism (past and potential). Godde may be hiding in a wombat burrow while flames rage overhead. Godde might be in the small child I was that nearly killed herself for self-hate and loneliness. Godde may be on the page I wrote and sent to my supervisor or in my supervisor’s tendency to chat to me as equals not just boss me around. Godde might be in the overly picky colleague who was right after all, in the lentils I defrost for lunch, in a stack of notes to be signed for my son’s year 12. Godde might be hiding around the corner waiting for me to get off facebook and run to meet her. Godde might be travelling with the person I wish I was with. Godde might buy me a coffee and advocate for me to get work. Godde might demand I answer emails. I might be hiding from Godde because my anxiety is playing up. I might miss her…but surely she won’t allow that.
Reading on in the book edited by King, there’s a chapter by Asian feminist theologian Kwok Pui-lan and she seems to be speaking (writing?) into my recent passion for decolonisation. She talks about religious pluralism as an antidote to patriarchy and white supremacy and it seems to me to be an antidote also to the rationalist, liberal-democratic capitalist perspectives that make us all individuals…it calls to mind an opinion piece I read that speaks also into the research I am doing on early childhood educator and carer wellbeing. We are not sparkling intelligences each in an individual space where we create the world through our own autonomous and authoritative will. I reflect back on Grosz which I read last year. Humans are not just will and intellect, the body not just an inconvenient encumbrance to be pushed off onto women-kind, abandoned, neglected or overcome.
The body-soul mobius is deeply connected to earth and connected to otherness. We need to rediscover our own othered dimensions to help us de-other others including animals, plants and perhaps ultimately minerals too. Eating mindfully (which I do not do enough) might be part of this. I eat to feed my will but also to make it wait while I touch something present. Food has scent and texture and flavour it is not just fuel. I need to slow down when I eat this may reduce my incessant appetite that comes out as consumption- the drive to buy and own and even the drive to give.
(What did she mean by she needs to keep working so she won’t think?)
The tragedy of humanity (or one of them) is how often compassion is powerless. What can I do for Kopika and her family? What can I do for my casualised friends who suffer with me but perhaps worse? What can I do for a battery hen or a dairy cow? What can I do for a burnt koala? What can I do to keep my own children safe into a future I (the dazzling will and intellect) do not own. I am mortal, I am limited. Sometimes we seek to hide from this by exploiting and consuming everything around us. Sometimes we are too beaten down to want to truly live.
In that moment the Wisdom in which I still believe (a faith statement I did not expect to find in myself) says “come, slow-down, smell the rain, open your windows to coolness, breathe, taste me, be”. The church has grown a rigid shell (wills and intellects and patriarchal fear of not controlling) and is sick but will not admit it or ask for help. I can refuse to believe as an act of faith. I can believe as an act of uncertainty. I can love what I don’t agree with and reject what I used to think was all. I collapse with laughter seeing in my words still the desire to be a knowing, willing, sparkling SELF.
I will go and smell the basil if the possums have left me any and see what the teenager wants to do today. I will try to come off my intellectual high horse but even these games we play…all of it…is prayer.
Thanks be to beautiful Wisdom.